


Like the sun

by Morethancupcake



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, First Meetings, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Infidelity, Internalized Homophobia, Jealousy, M/M, Misunderstandings, Past Abuse, Writer Althelstan, except it's pretty tame compared to the actual show, mention of other characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-11 17:10:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10469997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morethancupcake/pseuds/Morethancupcake
Summary: They meet during Summer, in a a town too small for them. Ragnar is like the sun, scorching, burning, and Athelstan isn't sure he will survive.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there :) Just to be clear : I haven't watched the show in a while, I don't remember a lot, but this got stuck in my head so there : enjoy.
> 
> Please remember English isn't my first language at all before you decide to burn me alive for all the typos.

"What's your name ?" The air is heavy, it smells like beer, like too many men in a small place, like the end of summer, like the smoke coming from outside. The blue eyes are locked on his, keeping him on edge. "My name is Ragnar."

"It suits you." Hi beer isn't cold anymore, he's been playing with his glass for the past hour, not wanting to stand up and lose the little table in the corner. Ragnar takes it from his hand, fingers gentle but commanding. He comes back with a pitcher, the cold almost radiating, and two glasses. A few seconds later, a bored waitress puts a basket of fried mix between them.

"Eat." He smiles, nudging the basket.

It tastes like the sea, like grease, like the road. He licks the oil on his lips, and Ragnar smiles, showing his teeth.

"Stan." His voice cracks, he doesn't remember the last time he spoke. "My name is Stan."

 

He walks back to his hotel, leaving behind the dodgy part of the little town, passing nice houses, quiet, quaint. He can feel them watching him from the safety of their homes.

The lady at the front desk eyes him, his shirt soaked with sweat, his red eyes. She frowns a little until she noticed the room he booked. Her smile turns plastic, fake.

 

He goes to sleep and dreams of teeth clacking with his own.

 

"Stanislas ?" Ragnar sits in front of him, again. It's too early in the afternoon for the usual crowd. The bartender shoots them a murderous glance, and stands up slowly, taking the tall man's order with a roll of his eyes.

"My name is not..."

"Not Stanislas ?" They chuckle together. Chuckle. He doesn't remember the last time he smiled, the last time he laughed. The tension on his face set in stone.

"No."

Ragnar asks him. About his accent. About England. About his village, lost in the countryside, and about his travels. 

What about you, he wants to ask. What are you doing here, alone. Why are you here, with me.

 

"Stanley ? No. You look nothing like a Stanley." Ragnar laughs and stretches, his broad shoulders pulling at the grey shirt. Stan looks down, because he knows better than to stare, not here, not in this bar, not in this little town.

 

He knows better.

 

"Do you want to come over ? We could watch something, use the grill outside ?" 

The blue eyes promise a lot, nothing to do with food.

 

He walks back alone, it's still early enough for the kids playing outside, the pink bicycles with ribbons, the cow boy hats and superheroes costumes.

 

He skips dinner and stays under the cold water, trying to erase the blue eyes from his mind.

 

"We should stop meeting like this."

Ragnar looks tired, covered in road dust, and sweat. He smells like a hard day of work, like tobacco and leather and liquorice. He drinks his first glass of beer in one go, and Stan forgets not to stare at his adam's apple moving, he forgets not to get thirsty at the sounds he makes when he swallows.

"Why are we meeting like this ?" he asks.

"Because I like you."

 

They're at the second pitcher when Ragnar drags him out, hands secured on the back on his shirt, and forces him to run with him. It's clumsy, and wild, and rough, and when they jumps up the fence, when they throw away their shoes and shirts, when Ragnar grabs him and jumps in the cold pool, he only feels young and carefree.

 

"You look good when you smile." Ragnar's grin is infectious, he's larger than life, he's the sun and Stan wonders what little will be left of him after the fall.

 

They eat McDonald's sitting on the pavement, too tired to care. Ragnar uses his phone to give them music, and Betty Davis Eyes fills the silence between them.

"I feel good when I'm with you. Like I'm awake." Ragnar is studying his face, and he keeps his hands busy with food, not to look back. "It's nice, knowing someone."

"It is." 

 

The song ends and another hit from the eighties starts. 

 

Ragnar bites into a ice cube, cracking it under his teeth. 

 

"Can we just stay here ?" 

 

It's too late for him to walk back, too late for him to protect himself, to pretend Ragnar is just a stranger in a bar. They walk to a field, and sit on the picnic table, shoulders close, but not that close. 

 

The half of his soul that isn't filled with light is cold with terror.

 

"What happened to your hands ?" Ragnar doesn't touch, but his gaze burns a hole in the marks. 

 

The terror is almost choking him, but he can't leave, he doesn't want to leave, he won't leave.

 

"My first wife broke two of my teeth when she left me." It's so abrupt, with no humor or malice hidden behind the words, that he almost jumps in surprise. " My second wife threw an ashtray at me and got me on the brow. Blood everywhere."

"Why ?"

"Cheated on them. Both. Did and said stupid things."

The silence between them is heavy now. Ragnar's eyes lost on memories, his list of wife, wives, women. 

 

"I'm just saying... I'm not a Saint. I'm not a sweet guy from a small town."

 

It's too late, but he'd rather face whatever is lurking in the dark than the truth now between them.

 

He writes. A lot. When he's not on his laptop, he's at the pool, or smoking on his little terrace. Ecbert is thrilled, and seems set into not mentioning the events that led to Stan flying away. 

"Are you staying there ?" he asks. "Just send me the bills, I'll pay for everything."

 

He knows that's not what a publisher should do, should say to someone like him, a one hit wonder, someone who still needs to prove himself. He sends the bills, and he orders from the room service. 

 

It takes a week for him to get bored, for him to risk himself outside, to get a smoke, and some food, something anything. He remembers the restlessness, the will to just go and run.

He slowly walks to the store, pretending not to notice the stares.

 

"I missed you." Ragnar looks odd, here, a basket filled with groceries and beer. It's difficult picturing him doing mundane things, human things, boring things.

"You don't know me." The smile makes him feel foolish, like a petulant child. A huge hand grabs his own basket, and the tall man follows him around. "What are you doing ?"

He knows, from the smirk, from the sealed lips, he shouldn't bother. He finishes his shopping and ignores the stares the girl at the till is giving them.

 

"She knows my family." Ragnar charges their bags in the trunk of his montruous car, and opens the passenger door for him. It's oddly sweet. "She'll probably regal them with tales tonight."

"What tales ?" Hi voice is still laced with fear, no matter where he is, no matter what he does. In the middle of Soho, or right here in the middle of nowhere, he can still feel hands pining him down.

 

It would be easy to drive them to his house. Easy to push him. Ragnar just grabs a fist of his sweater. 

 

"I'm not sure what you're afraid of, but you're safe, here." And because his eyes are answer enough. "I'll protect you."

 

He uses the small razor in the bathroom, and grooms his beard into something less frightening. He bought hair ties, and he looks at himself in the mirror, less hobo and more hipster he supposes.

He showers, and goes to the pool, skin still damp. He's the only one here, it seems. The whole building silent, except from a few voices far away, in the kitchen.

He lets himself float away.

 

Ragnar's place is small, almost empty. A few boxes used as tables, furnitures obviously handmade. It looks spartan, cold. Lonely.

Ragnar looks happy to have him, sits him on the couch with a beer, and rants about his day, about work, and someone who Stan isn't sure is family or work related.

They use the grill, and it almost smells like summer at home, the fat of the meat burning on the burning coals, beer and the smell of a dry garden.

 

"I come from a very small village." He's sitting on the steps, Ragnar mastering the grill in front of him. It's easy to talk, with the faint sound of another song coming from the window. Heaven being a place o earth." When I was a child, I decided I wanted to become a priest."

"Did you ?" There's nothing here, no laugh, no smile. It's genuine, and that's why he goes on.

"I went to the seminary, yes. I studied, and really wanted to. But things went wrong. Stupid things. Maybe I needed an out, and took the first reason to back out. That's what the cardinal said to me. Personally called to tell me how disappointed he was."

"You were loved, uh ?" It sounds jealous, envious. He puts it away for later. This is not the story he wanted to tell.

"I came back home to my mother's house. It's a small village. Gossip runs fast." Probably sensing where the story is going, Ragnar's shoulders tense slowly but surely, until he's a wall of nerves in front on him. It's not terrifying, it's not smoldering. It's comforting, like a shield, like an anchor. "They decided. I mean, they needed a reason for me to leave the Church. They assumed. Maybe they knew, before me. Maybe it's something they could see on me ?" The grunt he gets in answer is enough for now. "They waited for me one afternoon. Few boys, I used to sit with them on Sunday, during mass. I used to think they were my friends."

"Fuck."

"They nailed my hands to a cross. And put the crown on my head." His beer is still cold, nice. He notices his hands are shaking a little, and he can see a small tremor in the hand flipping the meat. "That's why I don't... like rumours. Gossip. You never know what people can do. Will do."

"I will kill them." Ragnar's voice is deep, broken. He keeps his eyes on the meat. "I will kill them, one day."

"What I mean is... I am not, the shy boy you think you want. I am not."

 

They eat in the garden, on a small plastic table. Ragnar tells him about work, about his children he doesn't exactly see, about his last wife and the hatred burning between them.

The food is good, the alcohol good, but the best part is Ragnar beaming at him, their legs tucked together under the table.

 

The summer is slow, like the ice cream slowly melting, honey dripping slowly. He writes in his room, he writes at the bar, he writes in Ragnar's garden, safe in the shade.

At night they walk, they run to the field and get lost in the tall grass. He learns the pool used to belong to Ragnar, now his wife's. He learns the big house used to be his, the fancy cars, and he tries to picture it, the money, the power.

"I'll make it again, bigger this time." His teeth glow in the dark, the moon reflecting on the water, making everything blue and white. "I don't care about this town, I don't want it anymore, I'll go away."

"Where ?"

"You tell me." He brushes their noses together and leaves him breathless.

 

Ragnar whistles at the room, at the plush bed and the huge bathtub. They order room service and wraps themselves into the huge bathrobes they find in the closet. Ragnar looks at ease here, just like he is in their dirty bar, in the field or in his garden. 

He looses his smile when he explains about the money.

 

His absence hurts like a missing limb, like phantom pain. He isn't sure how it can hurt so much, how it happened, how this tall man took, and took, and carved a place for himself inside his ribs.

 

He smokes, he goes to the pool. He writes and tries to think about his time left, about Autumn, and what he'll do next. He's so wrapped up into his little world that he doesn't notice the young man who sits next to him.

"You met my father." He isn't sure what he's supposed to say. Not sure where the conversation is going. "He likes you." The eyes are almost the same. Not the right shade. Not the same fire. "You need to be patient, with him. He'll do stupid things. Reckless things. He doesn't like to be hurt."

 

He tries to hold on to the words when Ragnar enters the bar, his arm wrapped around a beautiful girl. He tries to remember them, to burn them in his mind when he stops and sits in the pavement and cries in his hands, silently.

 

He picks London, because it's easy, and comfortable, and he needs comfort right now. He books his tickets, and starts to pack, to get rid of things.

 

He tries to tell himself he shouldn't feel heartbroken. He tries to tell himself it shouldn't matter. He tries to tell himself this was just frienship, and it should be enough.

He avoids the pool, because chlorine reminds him of warm nights and quiet talks in the dark.

 

"You're his writer." The woman looks at him, strong, proud. Stunning. She takes one of his bags and walks with his through the lobby, ignoring the small car he requested. "You're leaving."

"I am."

"He does that. Make you believe you matter, and then discard you." Her fury is cold, and not toward him. She looks genuinely concerned. "You deserve better than that. Than him. You deserve better than him. Believe me."

She drives him to the airport, and he's too stunned to find it surreal. Everything feels surreal, if he's honest with himself. He sees the little town passing through his window, leaves it all behind, this whole summer.

"I read your book." She says after a while. "I wanted to come and talk to you, but then you were his friend, and it would've been stupid."

"I see. You're probably right."

He wonders what this summer would've been, if she had been the one sitting in front of him. 

 

Security gates, plane, sleep. He's on autopilot, he doesn't think, he doesn't want to think.

 

He wonders what kind of moron doesn't give his number to the man he gives his heart to.

 

He sleeps like the dead, and forgets to eat. He drinks tea, and edits his manuscript. He avoids any kind of social interraction, smiles politely at his neighbours, and September escapes, day by day.

 

"I sent you a card, to your publisher's office." Ragnar's voice sounds tired. Hearing him on the phone, in the middle on the store, while buying sugar and biscuit, it's two worlds colliding. "But I got impatient."

"How did you get my number ?"

"You used it to book your room. It's a small town. Easy to get what you want."

"I see." He remembers the lady at the front desk and her plastic smile.

"I didn't. The girl you saw me with. That's what I'm supposed to tell you right ? That I didn't."

"I don't care."

"You do. You do care, so I'm telling you, I'm calling you to tell you I didn't, in the end."

"It's all the same for me." His eyes are focused on a label, it's easier than to let him think, to let him realize. "It's fine."

"You're so fucking innocent." Ragnar sounds pissed, but he's smiling, he can hear it. "So what, it's the end now ? You get the sugar daddy, but I fool around with one girl and..."

"Was it just one girl ?" The lady next to him is listening, and he can't find in himself to care. "Did nothing happen ? I'm supposed to believe you ?"

 

"This isn't what I wanted to say. This isn't how I wanted our first call to be."

 

He calls again, an hour later.

"I don't want to lie to you." he tries again, voice hoarse. "I don't want to lie to you, but I don't want to lose you."

"I'm already gone."

"No !" He could hang up, and ends this. Ends the breathing in his ear. "No. Don't, don't say that. You're the only one... you're the one that matters. I trust you. You can't... say that."

"He's my publisher. He made a pass at me. I freaked out. He feels sorry and pays for everything. He's rich, it doesn't mean anything to him."

"You're so fucking innocent."

He makes himself a cup of tea, and after a minute, he hears the sound of the coffee machine, in that small kitchen, far away.

"Who was she ?"

"The nanny. My second wife's choice. She knows what I like. It's like a game to her, to make me screw up."

"Was it good ?" He doesn't recognize himself. He doesn't know who he is, where the anger and resentment comes from.

"I miss you. I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry. I miss you."

"You should hang up. This will cost you a fortune."

"We need to talk. Please. We can Skype or something."

"You want to Skype ?"

"I won't let you leave me."

 

Ragnar keeps him under a flood of constant messages, random rants or quick greetings. He's still angry, and hurt, but he remembers the pool, and the moonlight, and that stupid playlist he started to listen to.

 

"I don't care if you don't forgive me." He shaved his head bare, and he would look terrifying, he supposed, except he remembers the giggling, the ice cream melting on their hands, and everywhere, the TV Shows.

"You don't really care for anything, or anyone."

"I love you." 

 

"You can't just hang up when you don't like what I have to say."

"Why would you say that ?"

"Because it's true. I told my son about you. My oldest. I told my ex wives. Plural."

"What do you need from me ?"

"I need you to forgive me. So I can take that fucking plane and be with you."

 

In the morning, Ragnar just complains about the cold, and the snow, and they both pretend.

 

For a while.

 

"Athelstan." His voice his soft and warm, like leather, like honey whiskey. "I like your real name. Athelstan."

 

"Until when ?" he asks one morning. Ragnar quickly realizes the switch, and is focused, silent on the other side. "I forgive you, until what ? The next nanny ? The next..."

"You're kilometers away, and I've remained faithful. To you. Why would it change when we're together ?"

"I don't know."

 

He avoids the calls, and barely answers the texts. He goes to coffee shops, to bars. He tries to picture himself free, holding someone's hand, kissing a man, but the fear is still hear, now laced with hurts, and regrets.

He drinks coffee and smokes too much, making himself sick and dizzy.

He walks around, always the same spots, always the same view. He tries to picture the taller frame next to him, and he can't, he can't.

 

"I miss it. This summer." Ragnar is watching him, like he already knows too much. "I never got to do stupid things, act like a teenager. I was always studying, or working. It felt good, to be free."

"Athelstan." Ragnar looks serious. "I need you to be brave now."

 

"I need you to be brave."

 

Brave. He doesn't remember, being brave. Following order, yes. Doing what was expected of him. Brave, he wasn't brave.

He's in the dark, the sheets crisps and cold against his back when he realizes brave was following Ragnar running, holding his hand.

 

He soaks everything in. The sofa bed he gets ready, linen fresh from the laundry. The coffee he buys. The second towel. The slippers. 

 

It's a myriad of little things, every small bits of a bigger piece, larger than the second mug he fishes out of the cupboard to rince.

 

Ragnar hesitates a second, his tall frame ridiculous at the door, and then everything is warm, safe, smelling like tobacco and airplane, and he lets himself just be.

 

The questions never stop. About the city, about food. About Londoners, and how different they are from the people in the small village he grew up in. Ragnar read his books, he studies the maps, the guides, and follows him around, apparently happy to just be, too.

"What about your work ?"

"They can do without me. I don't need to be there anymore."

 

If he misses his children, his family, he doesn't let it show. 

 

Sometimes, his hand wanders, on his shoulder, his hips, nudging him toward a shop, keeping him out of the crowd.

 

It's intoxicating, and safe. At night, he listens to the sounds coming from the other room, the body turning around, playing with the covers, the huffs and sighs. Safe.

 

"Is it how you pictured it ?" In the dark, both pretending to sleep in front of the Tv, close, so close, it's easy to ask. 

"Wherever you go, now, I will follow." Ragnar takes his hand in his, careful of wounds now healed, and he doesn't let go.

 

"I've never..."

"I know."

 

In the dark, Ragnar's hand finds his neck and touches him. Soothing. 

 

"You don't understand, do you ?" His eyes are blue, and warm, so warm. The tall hands frame his face, soft, despite the calluses, the biten nails. Soft and gentle when he explains. "I love you. I love you. You can't leave me."

 

The nice lady from the coffee shop calls Ragnar his "handsome man". 

 

"You're the only one scared, here." Ragnar is shaving, in the late Sunday afternoon. He's only wearing faded jeans, and he stares, he stares, because he's brave, maybe, but mostly a fool. The razor comes back from the water, clean. "I am here, with you. They know, and they don't care." Another patch of skin, clean. "And if they cared, I would kill them."

"You want to kill the world."

"I want to see it burn."

 

His lips are a brand on his neck, hot, scalding, and he can't do anything except bend and accept it, because Ragnar is a master he can see himself worship.

 

"You're so fucking innocent." Except now it's not an insult, it's laced with awe and emotion, and he wants to point it out, the tears in the icy blue eyes, the fingers shaking against him, but he doesn't.

It's like jumping in a pool in the middle of the night, it's like smelling them together, it's like these old songs, a far away memory, something he should remember, something that probably never happened.

The world stops at each touch of their lips.

 

"You're mine, now." Ragnar holds him close, so close it's almost uncomfortable, too warm. He doesn't stop touching him, his hair, his bones, the lines of his muscles.

"Does that make you mine, then ?"

"You souds more English everyday." He goes to the kitchen, naked, and comes back with a bottle of water. 

"That's not an answer."

"You know the answer, priest."

 

"You could... help me."

Ragnar is larger than life, he doesn't care about the world. He grabs his hand when they're walking, he pushes him against walls and gritty pubs counters to kiss him, and it shouldn't matter, it shouldn't because Ragner is a force of nature, has been from the start.

He's not scared, because kissing him is almost like kissing a God, one of these old Gods, furious and perfect.

But sometimes, the God moves storms and thunder and he wonders just how he managed to tie himself to this raw power, just how he can be enough.

Ragnar smiles, and licks at the blood on his lips. The bar fight was sudden, unexpected, and had ended quickly. Ragnar laughs when they walk home, ignoring him.

 

"Help you, Priest. How ?"

"It's not.. easy. For me." The street is empty, except from the few shadows in the park closer. He wonders if Ragnar watches him too, and sees all the ways, all the differences between them. "I am not like you."

"I don't ask you to be."

"I just.. need time. That's all." The blue eyes are smiling at him, in the dark, and Ragnar chuckles, turning away and resuming his walk.

"You want me to court you, uh ?" He can't protest. "Then I will, Priest. Believe me. I will."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading ! If you liked it, please consider leaving kudos and a comment ? It makes my day ! 
> 
> You can find this story (and me) on tumblr !
> 
> http://iwanttopizzamanyou.tumblr.com/post/158895732564/like-the-sun
> 
> If you made it till the end, please take time to stretch a little and get a glass of water ? Have a great day/night !


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